


Whiteout, 1 AM

by getoffmysheets



Series: A Storm Inside 221B [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Porn, Forced Orgasm, I don't know how to explain this, John is a Good Friend, M/M, Mutual Pining, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Protective John, Virgin Sherlock, but it's consensual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-20
Updated: 2016-01-20
Packaged: 2018-05-14 18:15:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5753380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/getoffmysheets/pseuds/getoffmysheets
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The wind howled with rage against the walls, cold air seeping through the cracks in the Victorian structure of 221, but Sherlock's dark curls were damp and sweat sat on his upper lip.  "John...I need help."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whiteout, 1 AM

**Author's Note:**

> Is it really a forced orgasm if he asks you to make him do it? These are the sorts of questions that preoccupy my daily thoughts, as you can see.

Kidnapping for the residents of Baker Street had almost become a kind of predictable measurement for how far they were in a case. John was more amazed that they were dumb enough to kidnap Sherlock than the fact that the man himself escaped captivity less than an hour after being taken away from the cigarette shop. Normally, the criminals in question had the sense to attempt capturing John, who was not a genius and certainly  _looked_ harmless enough. 

As Sherlock whirled through a complicated set of deductions about a pair of shoes, a garden hose, a Siamese cat, and a very ill-fitting jumper, John breathed out his amazed responses and then suggested dinner.

"Back to Baker Street, John," Sherlock said briskly. "Even Lestrade's team should be able to produce our culprit now."

John suppressed a smile. He suspected the real reason for Sherlock's eagerness to return to their flat stemmed from his lack of sleep the past four days, and since John didn't fancy having to haul his arse up the stairs again, he readily agreed.

The weather, while never pleasant in mid-January, had grown absolutely beastly. London was a mess of traffic and snow, cars in a standstill in some places. It took them more than twice the normal time to arrive back at home, and upon finally arriving, John is pleased that Sherlock slips from the cab and goes straight to his room for some rest. 

Since his friend told him about suffering nightmares about his fall from the hospital, John has made it a point to try and be awake whenever Sherlock goes to sleep. (The context surrounding that conversation is one that John is trying to condition himself against remembering. Every time his brain provides huge hands clawing desperately at his ribs and a background soundtrack of low-throated moaning, he concentrates on maggots in his butter, Mary's perfume, and Sherlock drinking eyeball-coffee). But as he's making tea in the kitchen, John hears the mattress in Sherlock's room creak several times as he rolls over in the bed.

John frowns, mug halfway to his lips. Perhaps he's already fallen into the nightmare? Sherlock rarely goes to bed, but there's nothing particularly restless about his sleeping.  _Except the frantic, dirty grind of his hips, fingernails digging-_ no, no. Maggots. Squirming white maggots. Gagging on the smell of flowers as he packs his clothes, his rage a constant noise in his brain - yes, there we go. 

The mattress creaked again and John was about to go into the room and check on Sherlock when the man appeared in the kitchen doorway. His hair was a sheer disaster, and oddly, he was still fully clothed.

Outside, the wind howled with rage against the walls, cold air seeped through the cracks in the Victorian structure of 221, but Sherlock's dark curls were damp and sweat sat on his upper lip, gleaming faintly from the lamps in the sitting room. His voice was quiet and hoarse as he said "John, I think I need help."

John doesn't quite catch the tense note in his voice, stirs milk in his tea with furrowed brow. "A nightmare? We can-"

"No," Sherlock cuts him off. "Not a nightmare, no. I-I have a medical...problem. Mrs Lewis seems to have...given me something, while I was unconscious-"

The doctor goes pale, with both concern and fury. "Was cocaine? Heroin? We can handle the withdrawal, we'll figure something out-" 

"No, John," Sherlock barks. "It's not something I would ever call...recreational." 

It's then that John looks, really looks at Sherlock.

He does try to minimize having to stare directly at him, these days. He still believes that his unrequited love/lust is no one's problem but his own, but that doesn't mean it's easy having what you want in front of you everyday, and knowing you'll never have it. John knows that leaving him is out of the question, but he does try to limit his temptation as much as possible.

Sherlock's face is flushed a dark pink, lips red, eyes dilated - almost glazed. John can see his pulse hammering rabbit-quick in the tempting expanse of his throat and even standing still, he seems to be nearly panting. He looks delicious. John wants to swallow him in one decadent gulp. He swallowed hard, trying to see him with the eyes of a doctor. "Viagra? I mean, sildenafil? Some sort of...erectile dysfunction medication?"

"Likely stolen from her husband, yes," Sherlock replied, though gritted teeth. "I'm sure she thought herself quite clever, a petty revenge for exposing her affair with the next-door neighbor." 

"So...take care of it?" John suggested, trying to sound concerned, but not overly interested.  _While I try not to picture you doing exactly that._

Pale eyes stare up at the kitchen ceiling. Sherlock cannot look him in the eyes as he responded "I can't, John."

"You can't? Sherlock, you're thirty-six years old, surely you know how to-" - _jerk off, wank, fondle that exquisite-_ "-masturbate."

"I'm aware of the mechanics, yes," he snarled, still speaking only at the ceiling. "I never been able to - I can't -" He ground his teeth, before spitting out "I've never been able to consciously achieve orgasm." 

 The world seemed to pause for a moment while John tries to get that phrase to enter his skull and he struggles to understand each word as a full sentence. "Um. Did you-? Ex-? Um. Are you saying that you've never cum except in wet dreams?"

Sherlock sighed, finally looking somewhere near his shoulder rather than at the water-stains in the ceiling. "Masturbation seemed quite tedious and pointless to me as a teenager, I was easily distracted from my goal and beyond the hormonal urges, it never seemed interesting or important. Everything seemed to take care of itself whenever I slept." He shrugged. "Eventually, when I became an adult and the hormones settled, even the wayward urges to touch myself went away. I've tried purely for curiosity's sake, of course - I don't have trouble becoming erect - but I could never manage to...finish, as it were. Whenever my body finds it intolerable, I wake up to...the evidence."

John found that his mouth was wide open, and promptly shut it with a snap. Without his consent, the ragged sobbing play in the background of his mind as Sherlock, unconscious, tried to find release. He recalled how difficult it was was for Sherlock to cum even in sleep, the needy mewling as his desperation grew. His ragged moans as John whispered his encouragement. John licked his lips, feeling a flush sweep his torso that left his cock growing plump in his pants. "So...you want me to help...make you...?"

Flushing even darker, Sherlock's dilated eyes shift from John's and back, nodding. "I can't finish, John. And it...it  _hurts._ It always hurts, after a time, but before I could ignore and it would go away. It's not going away this time, and every time I touch it, it just gets worse."

John bit his lip, considering his options. He could go with Sherlock to the A&E, but the weather was still terrible, and a raging boner wasn't actually a medical emergency, at least not for a few more hours. While Sherlock's over-sensitivity was extremely painful for him, the staff wouldn't consider it a priority until his erection lasted long enough to cause problems to other parts of his body. In the meantime, Sherlock was already in agony, trembling faintly against the door-frame, and John knew that it would only grow worse as more time went on. He honestly didn't think he could stand to see him this way, knowing that Sherlock was always right at the edge but couldn't bring himself to cum. "Okay," he said softly. "You know I'll help whenever you need me. Just go sit on the bed and I'll be right there."

Walking into the loo, John took deep breaths as he dug beneath the sink for his kit, grabbing a pair of gloves and medical lubricant - useful for whenever Sherlock decided to shove his abnormally large hand down the sink drain for whatever reason, now to be deployed for an entirely different purpose. He knelt with the items in his hands, knees aching, and debated. Using the gloves and lubricant would make the experience feel less intimate, more clinical than erotic, which would hopefully make Sherlock feel more comfortable and more able to relax into the sensations. It would also, John thought guiltily, keep himself from getting carried away. Touching more than he should, taking more than he was given. 

John again reminded himself that Sherlock didn't want this to happen, this was something that had occurred not only against his will but contrary to his direct wishes. Poor thing was probably horrified at the state of his body. Mind made up, John stood with a crack of knees and sighed, steeling his resolve before stepping out into the bedroom.

Sherlock was perched nervously at the edge of the bed, flushed and sweating despite below zero temperatures outside. He eyed the objects in John's hand. "I want to try something," John explained. "Since you've had difficulty achieving orgasm solely through manual stimulation, I thought maybe a different approach would be best."

Sherlock's eyes were wide. "Prostate massage," he said hoarsely, gazed fixed on John's hands.

"Yeah," he agreed, fidgeting. "But if you feel uncomfortable with it, we can try-"

"No, it's fine. It's all fine. I-yes." Sherlock stripped off his jacket and shirt, then trousers. The front of his black pants was stretched with the bulge of his cock. John's prick throbbed and his mouth watered at the wet spot near the top - Sherlock was positively soaking.

Clearing his throat, John said "Some men find prostate stimulation uncomfortably intense or even painful, so if you find yourself in that position, tell me and I'll think of something else."

Hesitantly, with a shyness that John found enormously endearing and dizzyingly hot, Sherlock lay back on the sheets and slipped his pants off. Hard pink nipples, hard pink cock, acres of smooth white skin - it all begged to be kissed and licked. Feeling light-headed, John slipped gloves on and popped open the lubricant, sliding to the floor as he spread Sherlock's knees and sat in front of a view that he would have absolutely  _killed_ for. 

Sherlock's cock was nearly purple with the constant pulse of blood caused by the medication. Unable to resist the urge, John cupped his bollocks in a warm palm and gave a soft squeeze, using his thumb to caress each testicle gently. "Uhhh," Sherlock gasped, head falling back, mouth dropping open, and knees spread wider. The flush of arousal on his face spread down to his tightly peaked nipple. 

A thick bead of precum slipped down Sherlock's cock from the swollen head.

"Okay?" John murmured, mesmerized by vision spread out in front of him. 

"Keep going," Sherlock said hoarsely.

Spreading lubricant all over his fingers, John gently began rubbing the ring of muscle at the outer rim of Sherlock's arse. He heard the man's breath hitch at the catch and stretch of muscle. The insertion of a single finger made his friend grunt at the burn, which was almost a relief after the insistent ache of his cock. 

When John coaxed a second finger in, Sherlock's exhales began to sound like sobbing, and the first touch to his prostate caused the air to leave his lungs in a great punch of breath. "John! Oh, oh! I didn't know... Oh god, John - don't stop, don't stop,"

John exhaled shakily, pumping his fingers in and out as Sherlock mewled in pleasure, writhing on the bed. He bit his lip to keep himself from moaning along with him as Sherlock began rocking his hips, fucking himself on John's fingers eagerly - which would've been erotic enough, but after the first few minutes, Sherlock's vocabulary was whittled down to vowel sounds and variations on one word - 

"J-John, John-hunhh-John!" he cried as the doctor wrapped his other hand around Sherlock's cock and thumbed the head, giving gentle pulls with the twist of his wrist.  _"Johnnnnn!"_

"You're okay," John murmured, resisting the urge to unzip himself - if not to jerk himself off, then at least to relieve the painful pressure of remaining crammed up against the fly of his jeans. "Just relax into what you're feeling, Sherlock. I'm right here," 

As he kept up ministrations, Sherlock's constant chant of "John-John-John-!" turned into "Huhn-Huhn-Huhn-!" as he lost the ability to form the complicated "j" consonant. Sweat ran down his flat stomach and created a very lickable sheen on his thighs. He fucked himself frantically on the fingers inside him, clawing his own chest, thrashing his head side to side. Distantly, he could hear John's voice "Come on, I know you can do it. Go ahead, Sherlock - whenever you're ready."

"Huh-huhn! Huhn! Huhn-haaaa!"

When he finally came, it was incredible. His testicles ached fiercely, and then the world seemed to blur around the edges, whiting out until Sherlock was hardly aware of anything - even his own body. Something wet and warm was running over his chest, cleaning away the sticky residue of semen. He felt John run a rough palm - sans glove or lubricant - up and down his side, like gentling a wild animal. To feel the scrape of callous, the oily texture of skin, was heavenly. He felt heavy and tired, and falling asleep was easy, like slipping into a warm bath.

John let Sherlock pass out on the bed before leaving the room, staying only long enough to throw the gloves into the bin and pull a blanket over Sherlock, naked and vulnerable on the bed in a way that tempted John dangerously to stay there. He forced himself to wait until he was in his own room before hastily yanking down his jeans and pants - didn't bother with the zip - and wrapping his hand around his prick, remembering the way Sherlock screamed for him. A few strokes was all he needed to find a little relief. 

 _He'd screamed for him._ Boring, ordinary John, and Sherlock had howled and begged for more. Actually it had sounded a little bit...familiar. The sexiest thing he'd ever heard and yet, it wasn't the first time, was it? It was nearly...dreamlike...

_"Ah-hahn! Huhn! Huhn-huhn-huhn!” Sherlock was sobbing, body shaking around him-_

Oh dear sweet and salty Christ. 


End file.
